Fiction: Group 4
Bloodstream
Pui Kiu College, Tse, Karen - 15, Fiction: Group 4
ran used to say, “When the robins stop singing, it won’t be long until the river stops flowing.” Or
at least, I think that’s what she used to sing about all the time. Me and my brother, we just don’t
have the artsy genes to interpret songs correctly.
Well, robins are not singing, but the river flows on.
Al and I are sitting on the sloping, hard-packed soil—the river banks. You’d expect a “river
banks” to be right next to the river, but in between us and the water is an invisible wall.
“Can you believe that behind those walls, there is actual, flowing water?” Al asks.
Yes, of course I can very much believe it, even though I don’t see the point of doubting its
existence. Either way, we are not benefitted.
Don’t get me wronged, however. Al is not only my twin brother; he is also a very sweet and
charming best friend. He just gets a little touchy with, let’s say, issues.
As if to prove my point, he pulls out a palm-sized wooden pot, completed with a matching lid.
“Here’s your present, birthday girl.”
I reach for the pot from his dry, calloused hand.
Lard and, what seem like raw honey.
Yuck, I want to say. Not exactly the best-smelling thing in the world, but close enough. Close
enough to-- what’s it called again? -- Lip balm.
“Nice try, brother.” With that little supply of water, I mean what I say, but it turns out sarcastic.
My parents and little brother Kevin didn’t as much as each gave me a slobbery kiss, but still I am
grateful.
The Pearl River Delta has always been an area with rich water sources, until several decades back
then when the rulers realized that despite the spilling water supply, energy is running low. Then some
mustachioed guy made the decision that all water was to be collected and redistributed. Water ducts and
hydroelectric dams were built. Even a tiny tributary like ours, where I believe is no wider than three foot, is
condemned to such fate.
We can see no further than the other side of the banks, almost as if a white wall constrict our sight,
but rumor says there lives the well-offs.
Well-off we are not, but what we got is peace.
It
is
quite peaceful, listening to the soft sloshing of the river if you can ignore the slightly disturbing
heat from the unseen walls that incinerates you when you get too close.
Water has always been rationed since then. Now even food—mostly bread and oil was.
I gouge out some of the translucent white goo of a lip balm and, very gingerly, spread it on my
lips.
Argh. It tastes horrible. But not without the sudden nourish did I realize how dry and chapped my
lips were.
We are walking towards the grey slab of concrete that is made up of multiple identical buildings when the
national anthem blares out.
Al stops in his tracks stiffly. His black hair—black but lighter than mine for a shade—reflects the
sunlight in a golden halo. In the wind, his hair looks like bright, flowing water. I’ve been told the same, but
I just cannot see how my near-grotesque hair could resemble something so beautiful.
We don’t have to stop. We have few rules, while the unspoken ones are aplenty.
Still, we wait patiently until the trumpet ends with a long note. A buzz lingers, and what it says
couldn’t be clearer—Don’t go. We’re not done yet.
A sharp whistle breaks out.
The water rations are coming.
We are expected to go back to our family-unit flats before all, and wait for our daily bucketful of
purified, drinking-safe water. But seeing I got neither demented nor evil family members that hide, steal or
drink my portion, we don’t skitter back home hurriedly.
G
